


Football Drabbles

by DistortedDaytime



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Awkward First Times, Freeform, Goalie Love, Grief/Mourning, Kink Exploration, M/M, Making Up, Polyamory, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22077976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistortedDaytime/pseuds/DistortedDaytime
Summary: A collection of drabbles featuring pairings I enjoy.CH 1: Auba/Marco, Auba's actually a black pantherCH 2: Lewy/Boateng, crime AUCH 3: Luka/Marcelo, supernatural AUCH 4: Schmelle/Piszczu, first timeCH 5: Bernd Leno/Arsenal, sort-of not-really an orgyCH 6: Schmelle/Piszczu, more first timesCH 7: Lewandowski/Alaba, grief and soulbondsCH 8: TAA/VVD, post-championship celebrationsCH 9: Bravertz, oh god we might not be vanillaCH10: Bravertz, oh god we're definitely not vanillaCH11: Paulo Dybala/Mario Mandžukić, not giving up without a fightCH12: Schmelle/Piszczu, the one where Mats Hummels is an idiot
Relationships: David Alaba/Robert Lewandowski, Jerome Boateng/Robert Lewandowski, Julian Brandt/Kai Havertz, Luka Modrić/Marcelo Vieira, Paulo Dybala/Mario Mandžukić, Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang/Marco Reus, Trent Alexander Arnold/Virgil Van Dijk, Łukasz Piszczek/Marcel Schmelzer
Comments: 52
Kudos: 105





	1. Auba/Marco: Le Chat Noir

**Author's Note:**

> These have lived in the notes on my phone too long and will be updated as I get more of them typed up. Enjoy!

So, the thing about Auba.

Okay, there’s a lot of things about Auba, some Marco likes more than others, but that’s to be expected. No sane person likes Instagramming their ice baths or waking up to French rap at ass o’clock in the morning, but Marco compromises because he is an _excellent_ boyfriend. The best.

Which is why he doesn’t complain about being spooned by an overly affectionate black panther most nights.

Marco’s mostly used to it. Every team sees a shifter in their midst at one point or another and he’s still not totally convinced Kuba isn’t a bear or something, it’s just. There’s a difference between an affectionate house cat and an affectionate apex predator. About a hundred kilos of difference, actually.

“You’re such a diva,” he grouses when Auba shoves his muzzle right into Marco’s lap. “I’m not scratching your ears right now, I’m-“

A soft growl, then Auba’s rubbing his face all over Marco’s phone, making that weird breathy purr sound that means he’s happy. He keeps going, the phone is sure to be covered in panther smell by now, but no, Auba’s not satisfied yet.

“Bro, don’t bite my-“

Nope, too late, Auba nibbles on the corner of the screen and nips at Marco’s fingers when he tries to flick him away. It’s just a play bite; Auba would never hurt him but it’s fucking disconcerting anyway, because, y’know, _fangs._

“Why are you like this?”

A huffing growl that might be a laugh, then more nibbles. The GAME OVER screen flashes and Marco swears.

“I was gonna order something big from Amazon and save you the box. Now it’s going right to recycling.”

Auba ignores him and keeps rubbing his face over Marco’s fingers. There’s nothing to do but give in, pet him, and worry about Schmelle’s negative re-enforcement lectures later. Whatever. Schmelle’s dogs are actually _dogs_ , dog-sized dogs, so he can keep quiet and let Marco deal with the cat stuff. It’s worth it when Auba starts purring. No one else gets to see this side of him, and eventually the warmth and the vibrations lull Marco to sleep.

*

It’s early evening when he wakes up again. The light comes in golden through the open curtains; there’s a crick in Marco’s neck and a familiar weight in his lap. He blinks slowly and reaches down, expecting to touch sleek fur, but instead his fingers meet Auba’s scalp.

Marco smiles a little, and pets him anyway.


	2. Boateng/Lewandowski: Shall We Take A Spin Again (No Witnesses)

They’ve ran in the same crew for years, but they’re not friends. Robert is a necessary evil of doing good business; even before he came to Munich for good he’d been a thorn in Jérôme’s side but now it’s harder to avoid.

He’s beautiful like a knife is beautiful: keen and unmistakably dangerous. Jérôme takes a breath and feels the city settle under his skin.

“You’re a long way from home,” he says.

Robert smirks. “So are you.”

It’s no surprise when they fall in bed later. It never is. Robert’s mouth still opens in a perfect ‘o’ and he still arches into Jérôme’s touch like he’ll die without it. He bites at the tattoos on Jérôme’s neck like he always does, leaving an imprint in the symmetry.

Robert’s gone the next morning. His marks are still there.

*

The next time they see each other is in Berlin.

The Hertha contingent are suboptimal at doing business but they throw good parties and appearances count just as much as profits, so Jérôme shows up fashionably late and makes sure to shake the right hands and be seen by the right people. The club they’ve rented out for the night looks like it was a warehouse in another life and just enough of it’s been left intact to stay authentic, or whatever. 

The music is just a touch too loud; Jérôme finishes his drink and sets his glass on the table before smiling at his hosts and excusing himself for the washroom. He ignores the line at the toilets and slips off up some back stairs, looking for the office, the manager’s private bathroom, and a bit of peace. 

A hallway, a locked door at the end that gives way with the tools Jérôme always keeps in his pocket. Sure enough there’s another door leading off to the side; a sliver of blue-white light shines out through the bottom and shows it’s occupied, but they’ll fuck off with the right motivation, so Jérôme strides in without waiting. One look at the person inside, though, and he realizes his mistake. 

Robert’s standing at the sink with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and the white porcelain sink basin smeared watery red where he’s scrubbing the blood off his hands. There’s a butterfly bandage over one cheek and his knuckles are a mess; at least one fingernail looks cracked and it’s going to sting like a bitch while it heals. 

He looks up and meets Jérôme’s gaze in the mirror. His eyes are the clearest blue Jérôme has ever seen.

Robert wets his lips. “Lock the door.”

The lock clicks behind him. Two steps forward, then Jérôme’s hands find Robert’s biceps to turn him around and back him against the sink, kissing him with no preamble and no gentleness. Dimly the bass from the club thumps through and the light above the mirror flickers, casting Robert into shadows. Jérôme kisses him again and tastes blood.

Jérôme doesn’t ask if Robert’s all right, Robert taking off his glasses and going right for the button on his pants is answer enough. Jérôme fumbles backwards to open the medicine cabinet, and sure enough his hunch is right: condoms, questionable lube packets, the sickly-sweet smell of cough syrup. This isn’t the time or the place for Jérôme to spread Robert out like he wants to, but he makes do and gets Robert’s jeans and underwear down past his thighs. 

“Sure you’re up for it, Lewandowski?”

“Keep talking and I might not be,” Robert answers, bracing himself against the sink, hips forward, erection barely covered by his shirttails. He looks like a sin come to life. 

Jérôme smirks, rips open the lube with his teeth to slick one hand and grasp them both, inhaling sharply at the sudden delicious friction of Robert’s cock sliding against his own. Jérôme waits a beat, rocks his hips, and smirks a little when Robert tilts his head back with a moan. He works them both hard, not bothering for tricks or finesses, but he can’t stop staring at the bits of Robert’s collarbone visible through his unbuttoned shirt. The skin’s too pristine, begging for some marks like the ones Robert’s so fond of leaving on him. 

Jérôme grabs the back of Robert’s neck with his free hand and pulls him in for a kiss. His breath stutters against Robert’s lips and the last thing he sees are Robert’s flushed cheeks before he closes his eyes and gives in to his orgasm.

Afterwards, they clean up in silence. Jérôme doesn’t bother with feeling awkward and he doesn’t bother with a goodbye beyond a curt nod. 

*

Later, when he’s back in his hotel room, a slip of paper flutters out of his jacket and onto the floor. Frowning, he picks it up, and reads the unfamiliar phone number to himself. 

The handwriting is atrocious, but the numbers are legible, along with four letters:  


_ Lewy. _


	3. Luka/Marcelo: Just Go With It

Pragmatism, logic, and planning are all important qualities for a captain. Especially a human captain on a team of...nots. Club football and the distance between all of them made forming a proper pack impossible, but Luka does what he can to smooth the process along.

Including dropping himself into Marcelo’s lap and kissing him firmly.

To his credit, Marcelo hides his shock well; his questioning noise morphs quickly into a moan and he goes with it as best as he can before pulling back for air.

“Okay, not that I’m complaining, but, uh, since when do we do this?”

“Technically...” Luka kisses him again, then restarts, “technically we should’ve done this ages ago.”

Marcelo hums and settles his hands on Luka’s hips. They fit nicely together, just as Luka expected they would; he lets himself get lost in the kiss even as he’s counting down. 3, 2, 1…

“Wait, hang on,” says Marcelo. “Mm, Lukita...what’s happening?”

Luka sighs. He’d much rather focus on kissing than explanations. “We’re friends, right?”

“Of course.”

He’s sure he’s not imagining Marcelo’s eyes doing something at that. “But not  _ just  _ friends. Not for a while.”

“I guess not, but you never. We never...I wasn’t sure you wanted. Y’know. This,” says Marcelo. “And I’d be happy if you didn’t, I just wanna be close to you, so don’t feel like-“

Luka shakes his head. “I want. I want it all, and since international break is coming up, it’s a good time to get them used to your scent with mine.”

Marcelo frowns and cocks his head. “My. Uh, okay. I’m not coming with you, though.”

“No, but...” A thought occurs to him. “The Brazilian team is all human, isn’t it?”

“Uh, yes? What else would we be?”

Many other things, Luka doesn’t say. “We’ll talk about that later.”


	4. Łukasz/Marcel: Three Right Turns Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the same 'verse as [Feeling East](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21208103/chapters/50488757), but can stand on its own. 
> 
> Also, the fact that Łukasz just goes with Marcel calling him by a random nickname and has answered to it for years just delights me. These goobers <3

“Let me see your dick.”

Łukasz coughs a little, sure he’s misheard. “What?”

Marcel just crosses his arms, looking as determined as anyone can while blushing so red they’re practically on fire. “I said, let me see your dick.”

“Now?”

There’s probably a better response, but it’s sure as hell not in German, so it’s the best Łukasz can do at the moment. They’ve been dating for several months and they have yet to do more than kiss, which is fine since Marcel hasn’t indicated he wants to go further. Until now. Like this. In the most Marcel way possible. 

He looks around their hotel room before settling on, “Um, can I...get. Ready, first?”

“Oh. Um, I guess? Sure.”

Łukasz waits, but Marcel doesn’t move to give him any privacy. It’s not like he’s totally adverse to having an audience and he’s spent enough of his life in locker rooms not to be shy about his body, but this. This is. Different.

“Okay, listen, I’m not going to be able to get it up if you keep looking at me like I’m a science project,” he gets out after a deeply uncomfortable silence.

Marcel blinks, then runs a hand through his hair. “...I fucked this up, didn’t I.”

“A bit,” Łukasz admits, and scoots closer to wrap his arm around Marcel’s shoulders. “But it’s nothing that can’t be easily fixed.”

They’re quiet again, but this time it’s comfortable. Gradually Marcel relaxes against him and moves closer. He’s so different from the other men Łukasz has been with, he’s smaller, for one thing, and infused with his own particular breed of awkward confidence. He’s always been alluring, even if he’s never realized it. 

Łukasz starts a little when one hand creeps under his shirt to caress his stomach. That’s the other thing about Marcel: he’s not afraid to pursue what he wants and he refuses to feel shame about what those wants might be. Unlike Kuba, Łukasz’s brain supplies uncharitably. Despite his hangups about sex with another man and the inevitable guilt that always followed, Kuba was an enthusiastic and all-but-insatiable partner until the chasm between faith and identity grew too wide.

This time around, things are different. 

Marcel keeps touching him, tentative yet unafraid, tilting his face up for a kiss Łukasz is delighted to give him. He hums and opens his mouth so Marcel can lead the way and stop this whenever he wants, except he...doesn’t stop. His hand brushes the front of Łukasz’s pants, and Łukasz doesn’t want to shatter the moment, but it feels important to say,

“You know you don’t have to, right?”

“Vladi. Stop.”

Łukasz stops. 

“I’ve never done anything like this with a man before, but I want to. With you,” says Marcel matter-of-factly. “Can I try again and see if I don’t fuck up this time?”

“Whatever you want,” Łukasz promises.

Little by little Marcel gets bolder and nudges Łukasz until his back is against the headboard. Somehow he manages to look both wide-eyed and predatory at the same time, pulling away to shuck his shirt then coming right back.

“Here, get-” Marcel pulls at Łukasz’s t-shirt. “Get this off.”

If Marcel was anyone else Łukasz would grab him, roll him over, and rub against him until they were both half-crazy with it. Next time, maybe, when Marcel isn’t so new to all this.

He barely gets his shirt off before Marcel grabs him by the back of the neck and hauls him in to kiss him again, catching Łukasz totally off his guard in the process. In all the years they’ve known each other he’s seen Sad Marcel, Happy Marcel, even Glad-To-Be-Alive Marcel. Somehow Łukasz is totally unprepared for Sexy Marcel. He won’t make that mistake again.

Marcel’s warm and active against him, not so shy anymore, barrelling towards desire without any hesitation. If that’s what he wants, that’s what he’ll get. Marcel could ask for anything and Łukasz would give it to him, if he could. 

He runs his hands down Marcel’s back to cup his ass and urge him to straddle his hips. Łukasz waits, curious to see how Marcel reacts. Another man’s hands on his ass may just snap Marcel back to the truth of what they’re heading towards, but instead he wiggles into the touch and takes the hint, straddling Łukasz properly before demanding more kisses.

“Now?” Marcel asks, a little breathless. “You look…”

“So do you,” says Łukasz, and it’s true. Marcel’s hair is a little messed up, he’s flushed from the top of his beard all the way down his neck, and his eyes are bright and alert. It’s a damn good look on him.

Marcel rolls his eyes at the compliment, but he can’t hide the pleased little smile. He shoves gently at Łukasz’s shoulder. 

“Come on. Let me see how you do it so I’ll know how to touch you next time.”

Łukasz nudges Marcel back just enough to get his sweatpants down his thighs. He waits, but Marcel just gives him an impatient look. All right then. A quick movement, then his cock is in his hand. Łukasz looks down at himself for a second, suddenly shy. He knows his own body, of course he does, he knows what he likes and he knows there are people who like how he looks, it’s just. He wants Marcel to like it, too.

He gathers his courage and looks up at Marcel’s face, only to find him staring intently. Marcel’s pondering him, actually  _ pondering _ Łukasz’s cock before he licks his lips and says,

“Are you sure that’s gonna fit inside me?”

Łukasz almost chokes on his tongue. “One- one thing at a time, okay?”

“Right, right, sorry. Go ahead.”

He doesn’t have proper lube, just the lotion from their bathroom, but it does the job. Łukasz goes slow, warming himself up, teasing a little as he finds a rhythm to suit his mood. Not too fast, not too showy, just plenty of time to savor his own touch and the growing want in Marcel’s eyes. He’s clearly hard in his own sweats, but he makes no move to touch himself, too focused on Łukasz. 

The orgasm rises in him, sweet and hot like his favorite bread fresh out of the oven. Łukasz leans forward to steal a kiss but Marcel’s already there, meeting him more than halfway, mouth open, tongue inviting as Łukasz shakes apart. They stay like that as furious kisses give way to calmer touches; there’s definitely come on his stomach and Łukasz is going to get gross in a minute, but he’s not moving. 

He might not move again, ever. Moving or not, though, he’s still considerate enough to reach for Marcel’s pants to try and return the favor, but Marcel stops him. 

“Later,” he promises, and kisses Łukasz again. “Right now I just want to watch you. Does that make sense?”

No, but Łukasz couldn’t care less. 


	5. Bernd Leno/Arsenal: All For One, One For All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proper care of Arsenal's goalie after the Manchester United game on New Year's Day.

There’s an energy in the air Nico can’t quite read.

Everyone’s crackling with glee, high on the all-but-forgotten feeling of a good solid win, but it’s more than that. Little glances, shifty eyes, smiles so quick they’re meant to be secret, and plenty of watching the door. 

“What’s going on?” he asks Auba, in French, away from the others. Mateo’s getting changed and Laca’s messing with a very red Bernd, but he doesn’t want to be overheard.

“Mesut is making the call,” Auba answers. “So we’re waiting.” 

“What call?”

Before Nico can get his answer, Mesut comes back into the changing room with a smug look on his face, phone in hand. The room goes quiet, waiting.

“Well?” prompts Auba.

Laca nods. “C’mon, man. What’s the word from Spain?”

Spain...what? Nico doesn’t understand, but Mesut’s smile says he does. 

“He said yes.”

A cheer goes up around the room. Bernd, somehow, turns ever redder. 

Rob stands up and rubs his hands together. “All right then, lads, I’ll start.” He strides over to Bernd. “C’mon, Leno, shorts off.”

Nico’s eyes go wide as Rob gets on his knees like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Auba, he’s not going to...”

Rob doesn’t even hesitate. As soon as Bernd gets his shorts and underwear down, Rob's mouth is on him.

Auba just gives him a questioning look. “You don’t do this at Lilles?”

“No!”

“Huh.”

Mesut comes over and sits next to them. Nico can hardly look in his eyes, which, considering the size of Mesut’s eyes, is a minor miracle. The thought makes him laugh a little hysterically. Mesut, to his credit, doesn’t look at him like he’s crazy or something, and Nico will take the small mercy.

“No one will be mad if you leave,” says Mesut softly. 

Across the room Granit pulls Rob off of Bernd, only to be outmaneuvered by Laca, who slides over like he’s on the pitch celebrating and takes Bernd into his mouth. Nico feels himself blush. 

“Who did you call?”

“Marc.”

“Who?”

“Ter Stegen?” says Auba like it's supposed to be obvious. “You know, Bernd’s boyfriend? My god, have you been living under a rock?”

“I don't know, maybe!” Nico’s getting flustered now, and he doesn't like it. “I thought they hated each other!”

“They really don’t,” says Mesut with a laugh before turning serious again. “Really, Nicolas. If you’re not comfortable, it’s okay to go. Papa, David, and Reiss are all gone, and all the kids of course.”

Nico thinks about it, really turns it over in his head. It's strange, yes, but underneath the shock it doesn't feel wrong or bad. It feels like team. They lose together, they fight together, and today they triumphed together. It's natural to want to celebrate the same way.

“No. I stay,” he says, soft but determined.

He watches them take turns and argue good-naturedly about who gets to go next. Granit finally gets Laca away and spends a short time on his knees before a very excited Lucas takes his place, scooting in close right between Bernd’s thighs. Through it all Bernd looks as amazed this is happening as Nico feels; eventually their eyes meet and Nico knows what to do next. He stands up and walks over to sit next to Bernd, making sure to brush his hand over Lucas’s head in a quiet hello. 

English isn’t good enough for this, but it’s the one language they have in common, so Nico starts,

“I am happy.” Bernd turns to look at him, and he keeps going. “I am happy to play, together, with you. You were good in our goal, today.”

“Your goal was good, too,” answers Bernd, looking remarkably calm for a man who’s getting his dick sucked in public. “You scored for us.”

“Of course. We are a team.”

Nico takes Bernd’s hand. He doesn't let go.


	6. Łukasz/Marcel: Multitudes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to write almost 2K words of porn about these two when I have other projects, but the heart wants what it wants.

**“** Just so you know...”

Marcel’s almost asleep, but he perks up a little when Łukasz speaks. “Hmm?”

“What you said yesterday. About me, in you.”

That gets his full attention. Marcel’s glad the lights are off, because he can feel himself blushing at the memory.  “What about it?”

Łukasz reaches across their bed and touches his hand. “You know it doesn’t have to go that way, right? If that’s ever something we decide to do.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No. If you wanted to fuck me, I’d let you.”

The bluntness of it all stuns Marcel into silence. He blinks, trying to take in the implications.  “You’d really let me. Um. Do that?”

Łukasz yawns and Marcel’s hit with a wave of fondness for him. Still, it’s hard to imagine him getting. Well.  _ Fucked, _ instead of being the one to do the fucking. The confusion must show on his face, because Łukasz says,

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know! I always thought the smaller guy was supposed to be on the bottom or something, but I made the mistake of telling Nuri that and then he yelled at me about stereotypes and threatened to show me the bear section of PornHub. Stop laughing! It’s not funny!”

Marcel huffs and tries to keep his mouth from twitching. It’s kind of funny. That doesn’t mean he wants to laugh about it. 

“I’m just saying,” says Łukasz when he calms down, “whichever way you want it is fine with me. Or both. I like both ways. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Now kiss me goodnight and go to sleep.”

*

The problem with thinking about sex is that once Marcel starts, he can’t stop. It’s like being a teenager again, complete with feeling woefully out of his depth. Being at training camp is only a distraction for so long since they’re sharing a room and get paired together again for the Quiz Taxi. Marcel’s competitive side flairs to life as soon as Nobby starts driving, but it’s hard to focus all the way with Łukasz leaning in so close. Eventually they're released, and all but run upstairs to rest.  


Łukasz goes to shower as soon as they get back to their room. Marcel sits on the bed and tries not to think about him naked, how the water would traipse down his body, into every divot and secret place. Even worse, what Łukasz might be doing in there, if his thoughts stray to what’s building between them as the line between friendship and love is happily blurred. 

Christ, this is getting out of control. Marcel shakes his head. He’s not a 17-year-old virgin anymore, he’s a grown man fully capable of articulating his desires. It would just be a lot easier if he actually knew what those desires are.

Łukasz comes out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist and his hair still wet. He’s a little pink from the heat; he looks relaxed, comfortable, and he touches Marcel’s shoulder with a soft smile on his way past before flopping face-down on his side of the bed. He pillows his head on his folded arms, closing his eyes with a gentle sigh. 

Marcel studies him. For once he’s as unsubtle as he wants to be, looking his fill at Łukasz. He’s a handsome man, that’s obvious to anyone with eyes and half a brain, but Marcel’s still adjusting to no longer having to be objective about it. He can look at his friend and see more. He can touch, if he wants. 

Willing his hand not to shake, Marcel reaches out and brushes his knuckles up Łukasz’s calf, moving toward the back of his knee. Łukasz doesn’t say anything, but Marcel doesn’t miss the way his breathing changes. He doesn’t say stop, though, so Marcel keeps going, turning his hand over so fingertips meet warm skin, up, up, up to the inside of Łukasz’s thigh until he brushes the towel still covering him.

Marcel licks his lips. His pulse is rabbit-quick in his chest and he’s about to ask if he should stop, but before he can find the words Łukasz shifts and pulls the towel away. He turns to look over his shoulder, blue eyes meeting Marcel’s own, and the air between them goes from relaxed to charged in a heartbeat. Everything Marcel feels - the lust, the nerves, the guarded vulnerability - is echoed back at him. He’s not alone in how much he wants this. The breath is shaky in Marcel’s lungs; he holds Łukasz’s gaze and moves his hand up higher. 

He scoots closer. He needs to be closer, as close as they can be. Marcel’s shy suddenly about being the only one wearing clothes, but he’s not going to break the moment for something so dumb, not when his touch is getting steadier and the want is starting to crystallize into something clear. He settles his whole hand right on the meat of Łukasz’s ass and brushes his thumb over the cleft, curious and a little anxious that he’s going too far. Łukasz just spreads his legs a little, inviting. He’s...he’s so quietly confident, totally at home in his body and in his masculinity, and somehow he’s allowed Marcel to see him like this. It’s a gut punch, in a good way. 

“We need something. I’m not doing this with Spanish hand lotion,” says Marcel, and Łukasz gestures toward his backpack.

“Front pocket.”

There, right where he indicated, is a tiny bottle of lube. Marcel takes a moment to be grateful for the foresight. He opens the bottle and pours a little on his fingers, then a little more. Can’t be too careful, right? Right. Sure. 

This time he uses his slick fingers with purpose, experimenting with touch and pressure as he gets up his courage to press inside. He doesn’t miss the way Łukasz’s hips twitch towards the bed, or how his own arousal is becoming harder and harder to ignore. 

“Tell me if I hurt you,” Marcel says softly, and pushes.

They moan in unison. Łukasz is so warm here, radiating heat. Marcel waits, but he doesn’t seem to be in any pain, so he presses his finger in a little more. Oh god, he’s really doing this, oh god, okay, sure, move a little bit, in and out, that’s supposed to feel good, and maybe it does, if the way Łukasz cants his hips into the touch is any indication. Marcel wants to make it feel better.

“Can I. I mean. Do you want more?”

Łukasz nods. He’s braced up on his forearms and his head drops when Marcel pushes another finger in. It’s a tighter fit this time, but god, his body feels so damn  _ good.  _ They’re definitely doing this again, if Marcel has anything to say about it. He rubs Łukasz’s hip with his free hand and keeps his fingers moving. There’s a way to make it feel better, if all of  Marcel’s reading was right; he searches, but doesn’t find it.

“Press down,” Łukasz tells him, muffled and rough. “In more, then- then press down, towards the bed. You’ll feel it.”

“Like this?”

Łukasz’s back arches and he moans, nodding fervently. Marcel smiles, half breathless and half-relieved, and does it again. He thanks his lucky stars for having some modicum of coordination, enough to gently thrust his fingers and keep pressure on the same spot now that he understands what to look for. It’s nice to know he’s not totally hopeless at this. He watches, captivated, as Łukasz gets one hand under his body and starts stroking himself in time with Marcel’s movements. He’s unlike anything else in the world, and the sound Łukasz makes when he comes is going to haunt Marcel for a long, long time. 

Marcel withdraws his fingers carefully, but before he can do anything else Łukasz is up and moving, all but pouncing him back onto their bed. A minor scuffle, then Marcel’s track pants are down around his knees and Łukasz has him pinned, eyes bright as he gets Marcel’s underwear down, too. He licks his lips, and actually has the nerve to make a pleased sound before he takes Marcel’s cock fully in his mouth. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh god-”

Łukasz doesn’t waste any time. He sucks cock like he does everything else, with single-minded determination and one goal. Marcel barely gets his hands in Łukasz’s hair before he’s coming down his throat, shaking at the force of it, unable to let go of Łukasz’s hair or do anything that won’t keep him close, closer, here, now. 

He’s still panting when Łukasz finally pulls off and crawls up to kiss him. His mouth is salty and a bit bitter; it’s disconcerting until it’s not so Marcel keeps kissing him and trading easy touches while his pulse makes a decision about returning to normal. 

“That…” He noses against Łukasz’s cheek, searching for the right words. “Holy shit.”

He gets a breathless smile in response. Eventually they roll over onto their sides, still facing each other. It’s the easiest thing in the world for Marcel to tangle their feet together and move in closer like he’s about to share a secret. Instead, he asks, 

“Did you seriously bring lube with you through customs?”

“Hell, no. I snuck down to the pharmacy before the second session this afternoon.” Łukasz watches him carefully for a moment. “You...you’re good, with this? What we just did?”

Something in his tone makes Marcel pay just a bit more attention. “Yeah, of course. I want to see if you can do that for me,” he says, and gets a kiss in response. 

“Next time.”

Next time.


	7. Lewandowski/Alaba: Clenching Fists With The Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a thought at work the other day, about a soulbond kicking in during the absolute worst moment of someone's life. Sorry, Robert. For context, he lost his dad at age 16, at which point David would have been 11. 
> 
> This chapter deals with grief and the loss of a parent, so please use caution if you're sensitive to those subjects.

The thing about death is that it’s always a surprise, even when it’s not. The waiting game is the closest to hell Robert’s ever been; every minute of life is another minute  _ alive,  _ but the minutes are so miserable that he can’t wait for it to be over, and he feels even worse for thinking of it like that.

He goes to Mass, goes to confession, kneels until he can’t feel his legs, trying to remember how to hope for a miracle.

When it comes - the end, not the miracle, no, no miracles here - the bottom doesn’t drop out of his life, it’s just fucking gone.

Robert’s crying before he even realizes what’s happening. He’s too old to cry, but here he is, overflowing with all this, this,  _ bullshit  _ that he didn’t ask for. This wasn’t supposed to happen; bad things are for Other People who don’t go to church or kiss their moms goodbye, and yet here he is, covered in snot and tears and left to deal with the  _ worst fucking thing  _ that’s ever happened to him. 

Milena is silent next to him. Her eyes are empty, her face like stone. For a second he’s so jealous of her he almost pukes, that she gets to sit here while everyone else sees him so stripped bare and disgusting, but another sob racks his body and he forgets everything else except how much this fucking hurts. 

His hands are so tight in his hair it hurts. A German boy’s voice tells him to let go, quit pulling.

Robert...does not speak German, and there are no boys around.

_ ‘m not German. Austrian, get it right. _

He’d laugh, if he could, to be going crazy at this exact moment. It’s perfect. Too fucking perfect. He clutches harder, hair coming loose in his fingers.

_ Ow! Cut it out, I’m gonna tell my mom if you don’t stop. _

“Fuck OFF!” 

Silence. Milena hits his arm and hisses something Robert doesn’t catch. He hiccups wetly. 

_ Um, that was a bad word, right? In...whatever you’re speaking? Wait, what ARE you speaking? What’s your name? Where are you? _

Robert is too stunned to answer. 

*

He doesn’t remember a lot of the rest of the day, just that somehow he gets home and falls into bed. He sleeps, if he can really call it that, but he wakes up in the middle of the night with a nasty hunch he’s not alone.

_ Are you awake? _

No answer. No, of course not, because this isn’t really happening, he’s just losing his fucking mind on top of everything else he’s lost today. Cool. Fantastic. He rolls onto his side and punches his pillow, ready to force his body back to sleep when a tired little hum filters through the back of his mind. 

_ Hmm? Wha’ time’s it? _

Robert looks at the clock on his nightstand, squinting at the red numbers. Shit, he forgot to stop the clock.  _ After 3, here.  _

_ Here too. _

They don’t say anything else, but he can feel the boy start to drift back to sleep. A good sleep, the kind without dreams.  


He doesn't know when he passes out again, but Robert reaches out, fingers extended in a ghost's touch. 


	8. Virgil van Dijk/Trent Alexander-Arnold: Top Of The World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Stardust_66, who turned me onto this pairing, and for being awesome ^^ I hope the characterizations are accurate, or if not, that I make up for it XD

“Listen, if I can’t tell you now…”

The words are fuzzy in Trent’s mouth. Fucking hell, everything is fuzzy from alcohol, disbelief, and sheer euphoria, because they’ve only gone and bloody done it. 30 years of hurt are over, because of  _ them.  _

He shakes his head when he realizes Virgil’s staring at him. 

“Oh- here, c’mon.”

Trent grabs Virgil’s hand and pulls him out of the room, down to the nearest toilet he can find, and prays the door locks as he shoves Virgil inside. God, okay, he’s really doing this. 

“Listen…phew! Okay, just listen. You gotta listen to me, right?”

“I’m listening,” says Virgil, drawing the words out. “What?”

“If I can’t- no, you know what, I was wrong, I can’t.”

Forget eloquence and all that. Action, right? Yeah. Action. Trent throws the last of his shredded caution to the wind, rocks up on his tiptoes, and kisses Virgil square on the mouth, wincing as he does it, ready to get punched or something-

Something that isn’t Virgil  _ kissing him back,  _ or bringing one hand up to the back of Trent’s neck to keep him right where he is. Trent’s not new to kissing, per se, he’s kissed people before, all right, but he’s never kissed anyone else who makes him whimper and sigh into it like he might go mental if he doesn’t get more of it. He presses closer, as close as he can, about to crawl out of his skin for more of Virgil’s touch, his taste. It isn’t even anything special, just champagne and-

Trent can’t help it, he starts laughing, because he still can’t fucking believe it. “We won,” he whispers, and Virgil smiles against his mouth. 

“We won,” he echoes, and kisses Trent again. 

Trent loses track of how long they’re just. Hiding in the toilets, making out like they didn’t just make history, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Virgil’s hands are getting bolder, moving down to his ass just like they did that day on the pitch, and god, if Trent hasn’t wanked off to that memory a thousand times-

“Virg- I wanna.”

He sways a little, whining, because yeah, he wants, he’s wanted forever, probably even before the dreams started, if he’s honest with himself. Trent kisses him again and slides down Virgil’s body until he’s on his knees, looking up for some hint about what to do next. 

_ You know what you do next, dumbass,  _ says a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Robbo. 

_ Fuck off,  _ Trent answers, because apparently arguing with brain-Robbo is a thing he does now, but Virgil’s hand on his head brings him back to reality. Trent looks up, and the sight nearly punches the breath right out of him, because Virgil actually looks...a little bit nervous.

“Still with me?” he asks. “Looked like I lost you for a second.”

Trent nods eagerly. “‘M right here.”

Something like relief passes across Virgil’s face, but it’s gone as soon as Trent reaches for the button on his jeans and starts undoing the zipper. He looks...it’s stupid, because he’s always gorgeous, but something about seeing him vulnerable...Trent might actually die before he gets to suck any cock tonight, and that’s just unfair. 

“Lemme see it,” he breathes, hands hovering over Virgil’s waistband. “C’mon. Get it out.”

Virgil says something in Dutch and nods. His cheeks are flushed but he pulls his underwear down just far enough to get his cock in his hand, and Trent actually moans at the sight of it. All the jokes about being hungry for it aren’t all that funny, anymore, because he’s  _ starving. _

Virgil makes a sound in return; he starts working himself, slowly, from base to tip. Trent lets his mouth fall open as he watches, the air between them moist on his tongue as he sways closer.

“You gotta- Virg, you gotta put it in. I don’t- I’ve never, so you gotta, right? Come on.”

“Okay, okay.”

Virgil takes Trent’s face in his hand, fingers curling at the hinge of his jaw, and brings Trent closer. Trent closes his eyes and his whole world narrows down to this one single thing, just this, the weight, the taste, the  _ reality _ . He’s actually got Virgil’s cock in his mouth. Fucking hell.

All he has to go on are the fractured memories of what he’s liked from the handful of blowjobs he’s ever gotten, and that’s not enough. It’s a start, more than enough motivation for Trent to start moving his head and testing out what he should be doing with his tongue, but it doesn’t tell him how to take Virgil apart like he wants to. 

Virgil’s hand hasn’t left his face. Trent leans into it and moves his head faster, knocking Virgil’s other hand off his cock to take over himself, and yeah, that seems to do something, if the low groan it gets him is any indication. Trying to deep-throat doesn’t appeal to him, so instead Trent works on getting his half-buzzed brain to coordinate hand, mouth, and tongue to-

“Fuck, Trent…”

Oh, god. Okay, that’s a new tone, and damn if it doesn’t go right to Trent’s own cock. He did that.  _ He _ made Virgil sound like that. He whines around his mouthful and reaches down to palm himself through his shorts, moaning at the friction. He doesn’t wanna come - okay, he totally does - just. Later, when everything isn’t quite so much. 

Virgil shudders and pulls him down, far enough that Trent gags a little. He shakes his head and pulls off just enough to catch his breath; Virgil looks like he’s about to apologize, which is the last fucking thing Trent wants to hear right now, so he grabs Virgil’s hand, plops in on his head, and goes right back to sucking him off like he’ll never get to do this again. 

Maybe he won’t.

He can’t think about that. But, if this is the only time…

“I want you to come in my mouth,” Trent says, wide-eyed and surprised at his own honesty.

Thank every football god there is, because Virgil doesn’t look at him like he’s totally mental, he just nods and takes his cock back in his hand like he’s, he’s  _ offering  _ it. Trent’s going a little fuzzy around the edges; he feels so full of emotions that he might burst if he’s not careful, so he takes Virgil back into his mouth and lets himself get lost in the feeling again.

It doesn’t take long before Virgil’s breathing changes and his hips start to stutter. Trent shivers, he knows Virgil’s close, god, fuck, he’s gonna get just what he needs, yeah he is-

“Trent-”

He moans at the sound of his name twisted around Virgil’s satisfaction and does his best to swallow. The taste is. Okay, it’s not great, but Trent can forgive it, because he did that.  _ He _ made Virgil feel that.

After a moment Trent sits back on his heels to catch his breath and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He must be a sight, if the look on Virgil’s face is any indication. Their eyes meet, the air turns electric again-

“OY! Whatever you’re doing in there, knock it off and get out here!” yells a familiar Scottish voice, accompanied by some good-natured thumps on the toilet door. 

“I’m going to kill Robbo,” mutters Trent, but he stands up anyway. Like it or not, the moment’s over, and he’ll add it to tonight’s list of incredible, unbelievable memories, even if this one is just for him. 

“I’ll see you out there, yeah?”

He turns to leave, but Virgil catches his wrist and pulls him back. Trent stares down, then back up at Virgil’s face.

“What?”

“Come home with me tonight.”

“What?” Trent repeats, his brain still catching up. 

“Come home with me, after we’re done here,” says Virgil. “If you want.”

Trent can’t hide the blush, but since his mouth still tastes like come, it’s probably a little too late to try and act cool. “Yeah, all right, I will.”


	9. Brandt/Havertz: Holding Waves Inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playing with this pairing a little...let's turn up the juice and see what shakes loose, hey?

"Kai...tell me I can."

The words don't quite register at first. Kai blinks a couple of times to clear his head. Duh, of  _ course _ Julian can, they're already making out against the door of their hotel room; Jule had barely waited for the goddamned door to close before he pounced and NOW he's asking permission?

"What the fuck, Jule, yeah, of course, why did you-"

His voice cuts off in a godawful half-squeak, half-moan when Julian hauls him into the room and all but throws him onto the bed, clambering after him a second later. Before Kai can decide to freak out or just roll with it Julian's on top of him, hands roaming and mouth desperate.

"Can't- can't stop thinking about you," Julian gets out. "Wanna...god, you have  _ no _ idea."

"Starting to get one," says Kai.

The hand coming up around his throat kills that thought stone dead. Jule's right, he has no fucking idea what's happening here, but. God help him, and no one, repeat NO ONE, tell the guys back in Leverkusen, but he thinks he might like it.

"Tell me I can?" asks Julian again, quieter this time.

Kai nods. Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, an instinct he didn’t even know he had is waking up. It...he can’t describe it, something is telling him to surrender, give in, and let Julian _take._  


“Fuck, yeah, just. God just  _ do _ something.”

He’s dizzy with it, and harder than he’s been in what feels like forever. All those secret little jerkoff fantasies about being tossed around and, and, manhandled, don’t seem so far away anymore.

Okay. So maybe he knew a little bit.

Kai keeps still even though he can feel his pulse hammering under Julian’s hand. Julian’s other hand, though...oh god, okay, it’s in his pants.

“St- Jule, stop,” he gets out.

Julian lets go of him immediately. “Sorry. Shit, I’m sorry, did I hurt-“

“No,” Kai cuts him off. “Just...’m gonna come too fast.”

Julian still looks freaked out, though, so Kai tips his head back and flicks his eyes at Julian's hand. “It’s okay. Um. You can squeeze?”

He's ready for Julian's fingers on his throat this time. 

A loud knock sounds on their door, and they break apart, swearing as Jule Draxler yells something about dinner. Kai tries to get up, but Julian doesn't let him. 

"Are you okay?"

Kai nods and kisses him again. "I will be when you. Um. Do that, again, later."

Julian's smile is almost worth the interruption. 


	10. Brandt/Havertz: Standing Tall Despite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to "Holding Waves Inside," but can stand on its own.

All day long, Kai feels like he’s going to throw up. In, like, the good way. 

Even training isn’t the distraction he hopes for, because Julian is there. The last thing Kai wants to do is slack off with the national team or accidentally ignore Julian in the small window of time they have together, it’s just. He knows what he wants, now, and he can’t stop thinking about it. 

If he was back in Leverkusen he could drive home, jerk off, and no one would have to know about it. Except then Julian wouldn’t be so close by and they’d have to make do with weird FaceTime sex,  _ again.  _

If Kai thinks about how that might be all they get next season, he really will puke. 

*

“You’re being weird,” Leon tells him later, during a drinks break.

_ “You’re _ weird,” Kai answers reflexively. 

“Do you wanna-”

“Nope.”

Leon holds his hands up. “I was gonna ask if you wanted me to get you a Gatorade or something, but not anymore.” He smiles, all crooked teeth and cluelessness, just like always. “Look, whatever’s got you all twisted up, it’s gonna be fine. No worries.”

Spoken like a man who’s mostly straight and coming off a treble season, Kai doesn’t say. Instead he nods, and bumps their shoulders together. 

“Yeah. No worries.”

*

Kai manages to keep himself together for all of three more hours, until after dinner. He makes his excuses and ducks away from the card game Ilkay’s putting together and all but runs back to his room, collapsing against the door as soon as he gets inside.

“Hey, you okay?”

Kai yelps like a startled puppy, eyes flying open to find Julian on his bed, propped up on one elbow and looking too relaxed for a man who’s been  _ breaking and entering. _

“Not breaking and entering when you gave me an extra key?” says Julian, and shit, Kai must’ve been thinking out loud. 

“Whatever, you know what I mean.”

“Hey,” Julian says again, softer, “c’mere.”

It’s not a question. Somehow Kai manages to toe off his shoes then his feet are carrying him to the bed as that feeling in his stomach gets stronger. He lays down on his back, close to Julian but not touching. Kai almost reaches for him, but they should probably-

Oh. Julian kisses him, and that’s way, way better than talking. Kai wraps one hand around the back of Julian’s neck and tries to remember to breathe as they kiss. Julian’s not looming over him, not quite, but he’s putting just enough of his weight down that Kai feels a little bit pinned.

Just a little. Not enough.

“Jule-” 

Just thinking about saying the words makes him flush bright red. He wants it like it was before, when he didn’t have to make the choices. Kai whines into their kiss and yanks Julian more firmly on top of him. 

“Jule,  _ more. _ ”

Warm familiar lips find the hinge of his jaw, then Julian’s teeth close over his earlobe. “More what?”

Fuck, when did Julian start talking like that? Kai closes his eyes and blurts out,

“Like before. When you. Uh. Touched me.”

“Touched you where?”

Kai whines. “God, you dick, don’t make me say it.”

Julian pulls back to look at him. “I have to, otherwise…” He chews at his lip. “Okay, just promise you’ll tell me if I do something you don’t like? Because. There’s things I want, but only if you want them too.”

“I want them,” Kai blurts out.

Julian groans and kisses him again. “Okay. Okay. Fucking- jacket, off.”

They sit up to strip off their jackets in a graceless mess, then Kai’s back on the bed, pathetically grateful he’s wearing shorts and not jeans, because he’s getting hard in record time. Julian rucks Kai’s shirt up around his armpits and sits back to look at him, and even though Kai’s still dressed he feels totally naked under Julian’s gaze. 

“Put your arms above your head.”

Kai does. He waits for Julian to take his own shirt off, or his pants, something to put them closer to equal, but he doesn’t. He just puts one hand on Kai’s stomach and  _ looks. _ Kai tries not to move around but his shorts are getting tighter and Julian hasn’t even done anything but stare at him. 

“Stay like this for me?” asks Julian. Kai nods, hard.

“I will.”

He must’ve closed his eyes, because the next thing Kai registers is teeth, oh god,  _ teeth,  _ He gets his hands into Julian’s hair to tug him away from his neck, but it hurts so good that Kai can only pull him closer. His hips jerk, desperate for friction, but Julian just rubs his skin above the waistband of his shorts and murmurs,

“Can you wait?”

“Ugh, yes?” The look in Julian’ eyes makes the thought a bit more bearable. “I’ll. Um. I’ll wait,” Kai gets out, and that earns him another one of those soft looks.

“Where’d you learn to talk like this?” he asks, as Julian mouths at his neck.

“Like what?” 

“I dunno. All...toppy, and stuff.”

Julian shrugs. It would look casual if Kai didn’t know him so well. “Do you like it?”

He sounds so damn earnest. Kai nods and threads his hands back into Julian’s hair. “I like it. I like  _ you. _ ”

Kai could burst with all the warmth and sharp sweetness behind his ribs; it’s almost a relief when Julian ducks down and starts worrying bitemarks into his chest. The pain is such a contrast to the softness of Julian’s hands, one still on his bare hip and the other just over his heart, grounding him. Fuck, Julian hasn’t touched his cock, or, or even really taken their shirts off and already Kai feels like he’s teetering on the edge. 

“Do I have to beg?”

“No. Just wait a little longer, okay?” Julian says, and bites him again.

Kai yelps, shoving his fist into his mouth to keep quiet, but he nods. Whatever he thought was on the table for tonight, Julian biting a trail down his chest wasn’t it. He’s panting by the time Julian starts taking his shorts down.

“Jule?”

Julian just hums and taps at Kai’s hips. “Here, lift up.”

Kai lets Julian get his pants and his underwear down, but instead of jerking him off, Julian does that thing again where he pulls back and looks. This time, though, Kai doesn’t fidget. He has to look like a total wreck, hard, marked up, and more than a little desperate, but he can’t help but revel in it a little. He knows what that look on Julian’s face means. 

“You did so good,” says Julian, soft like he can’t quite believe it. “I knew- I mean, I guessed you would, but I wasn’t...I wasn’t sure you’d like it, too.”

“I’ll show you how much I like it as soon as you  _ do something _ ,” Kai answers. His voice catches a little. “I waited, right?”

Julian makes a sound like the air’s been tackled out of him, but he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you did, I got you, hang on…”

He jerks Kai off rough and practical, just like they used to do back in Leverkusen It’s too much, the memories, the weight of Julian’s stare, his own eagerness to somehow capture this moment and never let it go. When Kai comes, it’s with sweetness in his mouth, like his favorite candy and goodbyes that don’t mean forever. He never looks away from Julian, not once. 


	11. Paulo Dybala/Mario Mandžukić: The Sound of Falling Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sequel of sorts to [Sea Changes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16580030/chapters/38853410). Basically between that fic and this one, Juve decided to freeze Mandzo out, and when he left, he thought breaking up with Paulo was the smartest thing for both of them. Paulo...disagrees.
> 
> Warning for non-explicit daddy kink, if that's not your thing.

So. Croatia.

It’s pretty, it’s a short plane ride from Turin, and Paulo has absolutely no idea What he’s doing here.

Scratch that. He knows damn well.

He rubs the back of his neck and tries to force his brain into remembering English so he can answer his taxi driver, but he’s too distracted to really think. At least Sami took pity on him and told him exactly where to find Mario so he doesn’t have to haul his ass all over the country.

The cab stops at a small marina. Paulo shoves a fistful of bills at the driver and waves away the change before grabbing his backpack and getting out. It really is beautiful here, with the jagged coastline and shining blue sea, but as the driver takes off and leaves him alone, reality hits him like a ton of bricks. 

It’s not like he really thought any of this through, not beyond his own wants and how fucking badly he’s missed Mario over the past months. Paulo bites his lip. What’s he supposed to-

“Paulo?”

His stomach drops at the familiar voice. Heart pounding, he turns around, trying to smile, but it probably comes off like he’s trying not to puke, which isn’t wrong. 

“H-hey,” says Paulo, and raises one hand in greeting. 

It’s fucking unfair how good Mario looks. His hair is spiked like it always is and his skin carries just a hint of the sun with it. His mouth is pursed; he looks almost as uneasy as Paulo feels. 

“What. What are you doing here?”

Paulo tries to laugh. “I heard Croatia was a great holiday spot. Everyone always talks about how nice the beaches are, and the food’s supposed to be good, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“And I mean, since we have a couple days off, I thought...oh my god, no. Hold on. No, no no no.”  Paulo shakes his head and runs a shaking hand through his hair. Fucking hell, how can a plan go so wrong when he didn’t even have one to begin with?  “Look, I- I came to see you. There. I said it. That’s why I’m here, okay?”

Mario closes his eyes. He lets out a deep breath, and for a moment Paulo’s dead certain he’s going to be sent back to Italy in his own fucking suitcase, but then Mario jerks his head up towards the shoreline. 

“Come on.”

*

Paulo catches the sound of clattering claws and doggy snuffles almost as soon as Mario gets the front door unlocked, and the sound is so familiar that it throws him back in time, to the days in Turin when he had his own key, when he was welcome in his Daddy’s house, before everything got so fucking  _ complicated.  _

He snaps out of it when Leni starts doing awkward figure-eights around his legs, snorting in excitement. Paulo’s on the ground in an instant to pet him; he pulls Mario’s ancient pug into his arms, holding him close and getting a tongue in his ear for his trouble. 

“Yeah, I missed you.”

He glances over, and the look on Mario’s face is so nakedly fond that it makes Paulo’s chest ache, but Mario’s expression goes back to normal when he sees Paulo watching him. Shit, did he imagine it? No. No, he didn’t.

Tentatively he smiles. Mario’s face softens; one side of his mouth ticks up and it’s not a full smile, but it’s a start and Paulo will take it.

“I missed you, too,” he admits.

There. It’s out there, hanging between them like a room’s worth of elephants, but he’s not about to take it back.

“Is that why you’re here?” asks Mario.

His voice gives nothing away, but Paulo recognizes the tension in his posture and the unhappy quirk in how he’s holding his mouth.

“Yeah. I mean, yeah. Why else? I have to be back at training the day after tomorrow and the season’s been bananas, but I can’t stop thinking about you.” Paulo takes a shaky breath. Fuck it, right? “I want my Daddy back.”

Mario exhales sharply. “Paulo-“

“No. I know what you’re gonna say, so just. Be quiet for a second and listen to me?”

Paulo lets Leni go and gets up. “You left me,” he says, taking a step closer, “and I tried to accept it. I- you were wrong, but it was your choice. This is mine.”

Mario shakes his head. “You shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because- you should have someone closer. To your age, to Turin, closer to the same part of life. I’m. I might be done. I don’t know yet.”

“Do you seriously think I care about any of that? I want you. And I think you want me, too.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“ _ Bullshit.“ _

“Is that how you talk to your Daddy?” Mario asks, low and dangerous, with a look that would get Paulo right on his knees if it didn’t disappear so fast. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Even though Mario’s trying like crazy to school his face back to normal, it’s no use now that Paulo sees the instinct is still there. He knew it. He fucking  _ knew  _ it.

“Why are you fighting this? I just. I don’t  _ understand,  _ and it’s driving me fucking crazy.” There’s a lump in Paulo’s throat, heavy like bitter expectations and too many months apart. He didn’t come here to cry, but his eyes are prickling and it’s inevitable.

He swallows the lump down and turns to Mario. “Just. Tell me, why you’re so sure this can’t work. Please. I need to know, then I’ll. I won’t bother you anymore.”

Mario doesn’t say anything. Heart pounding, Paulo watches him and tries not to get lost in his memories. The stupid jokes they had at training, wrestling and playing like it was just football again, not a job. The moment, across the pitch, when he knew he was in love. How he’d always wake up with Mario curled around him like a shield from the world. 

The silence stretches on, worming its way under Paulo’s skin until he’s about to burst. Fuck, did he really think he’d be able to come here and keep his shit together?

“Mario-”

He shakes his head. Mario shoves his hands in his pockets, looking down at the ground for a moment. He looks...fuck, he looks vulnerable. It’s not like Paulo ever thought he was immune to feelings, it’s just. It’s weird. This whole thing is just so weird.

“Why are you fighting for me?” Mario asks, finally, and it’s such a stupid question that Paulo would laugh if he could.

“I don’t...I mean, I  _ know  _ why...fuck, okay, I just. Feel so safe, with you. I always did, even before anything ever, ever happened. I knew you’d take care of me, you’d never let anything happen, and I just. God, I wanted you so bad, and then you left, Daddy, and I tried to do what you said-”

Paulo has to stop to catch a ragged breath, but he keeps going. “I tried to move on, I really did, but no one makes me feel like you do. I don’t  _ want _ anybody else to, either. I just. I wanna be yours. That’s what I want, and that’s worth everything, to me." 

He closes his eyes, trying like hell to keep himself under control. Paulo almost jumps out of his skin when he feels familiar hands cupping his face, but Mario’s touch keeps him grounded even as a few tears break loose and spill down his cheeks. Paulo looks at him; the softness in Mario’s eyes nearly breaks him.

“I thought…” Mario takes a shaky breath. “I thought I was doing the right thing, that this way...you wouldn’t feel weird about the club, or me, or have any distractions, because you’re only getting better, and my god you’re going to be so incredible-”

Paulo grips Mario’s wrists, holding him close. “You are  _ not  _ a distraction. Even if you were, we’d figure it out, because-” He breaks off, shaking his head a little in frustration. “You’re worth fighting for, okay? You’re my  _ Daddy.  _ Don’t you get what that means to me?”

Mario takes a deep breath and lowers his head and Paulo’s heart stops in his chest, certain he’s about to be rejected again, but when Mario looks up again, the intensity and the sincerity in his eyes takes Paulo’s breath away. 

“I know that now,  _ mišiću. _ I was wrong...and I’m sorry.”

Paulo makes a wounded noise and surges forward, kissing Mario as fiercely as he can. It’s clumsy, off-center, and everything he needs, until Mario breaks away far too soon. Paulo’s complaint dies in his throat, though, because a second later Mario’s kissing him again, taking easy control just like no time’s passed. He’s still so strong, all sharp lines and wiry strength, arm muscles shifting under sun-faded tattoos and Paulo’s absolutely starving for him. 

Strong hands ease his legs up; Paulo takes the hint easily and wraps himself around Mario, content to hold on tight and be carried wherever his Daddy wants him. It’s not far to the bedroom but instead of dropping him on the mattress, Mario lays him down carefully, and climbs in behind him, spooning up tight behind Paulo like he did on so many nights back in Turin. 

"Rest with me? Just let me hold you, for a little while, then we can talk later."  


Paulo nods. He's already falling asleep. 


	12. Łukasz/Marcel: Between The Languages You Speak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mats Hummels doesn't understand happy, healthy polyamory.

Training camp isn’t the same without Marcel. It just isn’t. There’s plenty for Łukasz to focus on; even after deciding to pass his duties off to someone else he wants his voice to matter where it needs to, when it needs to.

That doesn’t stop him from wanting, though.

Łukasz is scrolling through Instagram, half-paying attention when a notification from Marcel pops up. He grins at the mixture of Polish and English that follows his formatting to the letter. A quick response, then Łukasz presses FaceTime, unsurprised when Marcel picks up right away.

“What’s this about you practicing your Polish when I’m not around?”

Marcel laughs. “Only the writing. What’s the point in speaking the three words I know when you’re not here to make fun of my pronunciation?”

“I would never.”

“Bullshit, Vladi.”

They smile at each other. Out of the corner of his eye Łukasz spots Mats watching him, but he ignores it.

“It’s boring without you,” he says, “Roman’s a terrible Quiz Taxi partner.”

“You can’t lose! We have to keep our streak going, and Nel says you have to win.”

That pulls Łukasz up short. “You talked to Nel?”

Marcel gives him a look. “Yeah. Ewa’s boyfriend surprised her and since you’re in Switzerland, someone had to stay with the kids.”

“Wait...YOU’RE the babysitter? You?”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” grouses Marcel.

“I didn’t mean it like that! It’s good, thank you.”

Ewa would never have asked Marcel to babysit if she felt off about it, but Łukasz makes a mental note to check in with her when they talk later just to be sure. 

“Isn’t that part of this whole...thing?” asks Marcel, dragging him out of his thoughts. “Supporting your person’s person? All of us, being there for each other?”

Łukasz could kiss him. Him, and Ewa, and then Jenny, politely on the cheek, anything to show how grateful he is for being allowed to have this much love in his life. It must show on his face, because Marcel says “Stop looking at me like that,” and blushes a little under his beard.

“Sorry.”

“You’re not, but that’s okay. I’ll get my revenge when you come home. I have plans for you.”

Łukasz shivers at his tone. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Marcel winks at him and hangs up. Łukasz shakes his head, smiling a little, and shoves his phone back in his pocket. He nods to Mats, who’s still watching him.

“All right?”

Mats cocks his head. “What are you doing, Łukasz?”

Hearing his given name pulls Łukasz up a little short, but he ignores it. “Just talking to Schmelle-“

“No, I mean, what are you  _ doing? _ I thought it was just a little bit of fun at first, but I know that look on your face. You're  _ serious. _ ”

“Of course I’m serious.”

“And you’re not worried about how this is going to blow up? You’re married. Hell, Schmelle’s married too, and you’re, what, fooling around?”

For a moment Łukasz is too stunned to answer. Eventually he grits out a “No” and turns away before he says something he’ll regret later, but Mats isn’t done.

“What about your kids?”

“What about them?”

Mats makes an abortive gesture with his hands. “You’re not worried they’ll see something?”

The words drip down his spine, cold and cruel as an icicle. “I’m not talking about this with you.”

“Piszczu-”

“All these years, and I finally know what you really think of me,” he says, and stalks off. 

*

Mats’ words rattle around in Łukasz’s head all day. He hates calling anyone just to bitch when he’s upset, but just hearing Ewa’s voice and talking to the girls later that evening helps. Their family is thriving, no matter what anyone else might think or say about it. Patryk is already asleep so he gets Ewa back after saying goodnight to the girls. It’s an ache like it always is to hang up without being able to kiss any of them goodbye; Łukasz does what he can to focus on the positive of getting home to them before long but tonight it’s hard. He runs his hands over his face. Soon. He’ll be back soon.

Łukasz is getting ready for bed when his phone lights up again with Ewa FaceTiming him.

“What’s up?” he greets in Polish, only to get aggressively shushed.

In German. By Jenny Schmelzer, who...is in their living room. Huh.  


“Careful! He’s out cold.”

Łukasz blinks. “Who?”

She rolls her eyes fondly and pulls the phone back so he can see better. There, curled into her chest and dead to the world, is Patryk. His mouth is hanging open in his sleep and he’ll probably start drooling soon. He’s perfect. 

“Thought you might want to see him,” says Jenny.

Throat a little tight, Łukasz nods. He means to say something, but Mats’ words come back to him, unbidden and incredibly unwelcome, lodging the words in his mouth.

“Jenny, I…” He breaks off and shakes his head. “Thank you.”

She smiles, soft and a little too perceptive. “Any time.”

*

It starts almost immediately once Łukasz leaves his room the next morning. Mats brings him coffee at breakfast, then makes an effort to stay close to him at training. If he thinks he’s going to make up for being such an asshole without a sincere apology, then he’s very, very wrong, but Łukasz isn’t about to make a scene in front of the team. The kids can sense tension, whether they realize it or not, and the last thing he wants is to upset the team’s new balance.

Mats bringing over a bread roll at lunch is one step too far, though. 

“Knock it off,” he mutters, soft so no one else hears them. “I’m not ready to talk to you.”

To Łukasz’s complete surprise, Mats holds his hands up in surrender. “That’s fair,” he says, backing away.

Łukasz stares at him. “Since when do you respect boundaries?”

Mats actually looks a little hurt at that. Łukasz thinks about apologizing for a split second, then turns back to his meal.

*

There’s a text from Marcel waiting when he checks his phone after he’s done in the gym.

_ i told Mats he can go fuck himself if he thinks he can make judgments about us.  _

Calling right away feels like a step back in time. If not for the anxiousness lingering in his gut, Łukasz could be a day in the past. Marcel answers, but the screen is bouncing, and Łukasz catches the treadmill’s familiar thump-whir in the background. 

“If you fall and give yourself a setback because you’re talking to me while you’re running-”

Marcel’s sweaty face appears on the screen. “I’m not running, Vladi. I’m talking to you.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“So?”

Łukasz opens his mouth, then closes it again. He's content for the moment to let Marcel’s breathing echo in his ears. 

“Here, get off the phone before you get yelled at,” he murmurs after a moment. “Call me later, and...and tell Mats to go fuck himself again, this time from me.”

Marcel grins and hangs up.

*

Łukasz manages to avoid Mats for the rest of camp, up until they’re due to fly back to Dortmund, when the fucker up and slides into the seat next to him. Instead of trying to talk, though, Mats slides his AirPods into his ears and closes his eyes. 

He’s quiet through takeoff and enough of the flight that Łukasz dares to hope he’ll get to avoid the whole damn thing. He gets through a quick podcast and is about to start another episode when Mats takes out one ear bud and turns to look at him. 

“I know you’re probably not ready to talk to me yet-”

“Not that it seems to make a difference.”

“No, I know, so. Don’t talk, just. Listen. Please.” 

It’s a cheap fucking trick to trap him here like this and Łukasz’s hands curl into tight fists as he glares down at the tray table. He nods, once. 

Mats exhales. “I need you to know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Łukasz. I was out of line.”

Eyes narrowed, mouth in a firm line, Łukasz turns to look at him. “Which part was out of line, Mats? The part where I’m a bad husband and a bad friend, or the part where I’m a bad father?” 

“All of it. I was wrong. Listen, I...I talked to Schmelle, thinking, I don’t know what I was thinking, honestly, but he got so mad at me that I had to wonder if I might have been wrong about your whole thing.”

“This is a shit apology, Hummels.”

“I know!” Mats hurries on. “I’m trying. Just. After Schmelle yelled at me I spent a couple of hours learning more about polyamory than I ever thought I would, and...I saw how wrong I was, okay? I made some assumptions and acted like an asshole based on what I thought I knew. I know better now, but that’s not an excuse for how I acted, so I’m sorry. Truly.”

Łukasz lets his fists unclench. He’s still stung and he will be for as long as it takes for the feelings to make their way out of him, but it’s a step in the right direction. Still, he’s not willing to let Mats off the hook so easily. 

“What about my kids, hmm?”

“Happy, healthy, and loved, just like they should be,” says Mats. “Bringing them up at all was way out of line.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Łukasz repeats. He puts his headphones back in and closes his eyes.


End file.
